


Bruised

by Proudtobeatheatrekid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Reichenbach Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proudtobeatheatrekid/pseuds/Proudtobeatheatrekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS FOR REICHENBACH. Sherlock shows up at the door of 221b with flowers and groceries. Johnlock Slash. Oneshot, originally posted on ff.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's POV

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this fanart I found on tumblr: http://lilyswhisper.tumblr.com/post/17466425025/so-sweet

Sherlock Paused before the door. He had a grocery Bag slung on his elbow, the tips of his long fingers clutching a small key. In his other hand was a large bouquet of roses that Mycroft had insisted he get.

Sherlock Holmes was nervous, he realized as he sucked every last detail out of the screw at the bottom of the first "2" on the door. He was nervous to see his friend. His friend that he had abandoned. His friend that had stood at Sherlock's grave and cried. His only friend. The one person that Sherlock Holmes could not live without. The person he- dare he even think it- loved?

It had been three months. What if John had moved on? What if he had a girlfriend? What if he had a boyfriend? What if he didn't live here anymore? What if Mrs. Hudson had died? What if JOHN had died? What if, what if, what if? There were so many "what if"s.

But he was the great Sherlock Holmes. He had faked his own death. If that didn't prove how amazing he was, then what did? Sherlock breathed deeply, catching a whiff of the roses in his left hand.

"Disgusting things. Why does Mycroft think that John would like them?" he muttered under his breath. Well, it was valentines day, after all. And Sherlock supposed that a bag of groceries probably wasn't enough to make up for three months' absence.

Thinking _"what the hell?"_ , Sherlock inserted the key, still hanging from his fingers, into the lock and turned the knob. He entered the dark hallway and creeped up the stairs. Was John not home? He was getting more nervous by the minute. He slipped the key back into his pocket and rearranged the groceries, holding them against his chest with his left elbow and transferring the flowers to his right hand. He was now at the entrance to his old flat. Oh, how he had missed this place. He cautiously opened the door, holding the roses out at arm's length as an offering. Or maybe a shield. He wasn't sure. How would John react?

Suddenly, a foot connected with his chest. He fell onto the floor in a heap. He was being battered by something long and- was that the baguette? he stole a glance upwards, and saw the baguette which had been in a grocery bag only moments before being wielded by John. His John. His- oh. Very angry John. Another strike came. Then more. Each strike was punctured by a word. "HOW. DARE. YOU. LEAVE. ME. YOU. BLOODY. IDIOT." suddenly, it all stopped. There was a whimpered "Sherlock," then John was gone. Where had he gone? "John?" called Sherlock, still sitting in a heap on the floor. He realized that he was badly bruised. Could a baguette really do that much damage? Looking around, he saw the baguette on the floor next to him, sitting among fallen groceries and crushed roses. And a pair of feet.

"You brought me roses." said a voice. Calmer than he had expected.

"It was Mycroft's idea," came the response from his own lips.

"Mycroft knows you're alive?" Sherlock could sense that John was tensing up in anger just from his words.

"Did you expect him not to, John? I didn't tell him, if that's what you're mad about. He figured it out. He's been helping me. But John, it's you that I couldn't stay away from."

"Sherlock, I'm not mad. Well, maybe I am, a bit," John confessed, dropping on to his knees and showing Sherlock that he had brought a first aid kit back with him. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and leaned forward so that his friend could patch him up. "Sherlock, I missed you. How did you do it? WHY did you do it? Where have you been? Why did you make me go through that? Sherlock, I-" John's voice stopped, but his gentle hands continued to apply bandages to Sherlock's many bruises.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock whispered. "I truly am. I had to. He was going to kill you."

"Moriarty?" John asked, still calm. "Wait... This was Moriarty's fault?" John suddenly Screamed, overturned the first aid kit, stood up, and began to violently pace through the already crushed roses. "It wasn't- you didn't- you did it to save me?" and John stopped, staring straight at Sherlock, waiting for an answer.

It took a while for Sherlock to stop staring at John, simply marvelling in the fact that he could see him again, that John was killing him. John, John, John, John. "Yes" he finally managed to whisper.

Less than a second after he finished the monosyllabic word, there was another body close to his. A pair of lips crashing down on his. Warmth flooding him. Companionship. there were arms around him. He felt safe. Safe, for the first time in months. Safe, and home with John. His John.

 


	2. John's POV

John was sitting in his armchair watching the armchair across from his. Maybe willing the chair to not be empty would make it so? Maybe if he stared at it long enough…

No. That’s stupid. He’s Dead, John. You need to move on. You can do it, just look away-

Unfortunately, upon looking away, his gaze lighted upon the mantle. Upon the skull that he had never gotten rid of. The rest of sherlock’s things were gone. He’d let go after the first two weeks. He’d given up almost all of his hope, and it hurt too much to have the constant reminders surrounding him.

Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the skull. It was probably real, stolen from the morgue. John laughed at the thought. He couldn’t bring himself to leave baker street either. What if Sherlock came back? What if he wasn’t dead? 

John hadn’t heard from Mycroft in two months. Mycroft had all of a sudden severed all communications, which was suspicious even to John’s normal, idiot brain. 

He missed being insulted. He missed being ignored. He missed-

John heard footsteps on the stairs. Listening again, they seemed to be at least halfway up already. He didn’t have time to grab a weapon. He ran next to the door to hide behind it. Maybe he could accost the burglar from behind? 

The door opened, and the first thing John saw was a bag of groceries. He noticed a baguette sticking out the top, and immediately grabbed it. He started swinging wildly at the intruder, who immediately dropped the bag of groceries and a bouquet of roses that he had been carrying. That was when John saw the face. 

Sherlock. 

It was Sherlock. Sherlock had come back. Sherlock was alive.

Why?

Why had Sherlock come back? John was still swinging the baguette, with more precise blows now. How dare he? How dare Sherlock leave him thinking he was dead? For three months! Then come back? And on Valentines day? Hell, Sherlock probably didn’t know it WAS valentines day. How DARE Sherlock not know it was valentines day? John started beating him harder, crying. Every blow was punctuated with a word. 

“HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME, YOU BLOODY IDIOT?”

Then he noticed the Milk.

And the Roses.

Sherlock-

Sherlock was alive.

Sherlock was Here. In Baker Street.

Sherlock had bought MILK.

John let out a “Sherlock.” And collapsed in wonder, in confusion, in relief, in exhaustion. 

Almost as soon has he hit the floor, he jumped back up, realizing that he had just beat sherlock. He had just beat the crap out of Sherlock. SHERLOCK! Oh god, he had to get the first aid kit! So he ran into the kitchen.

He heard a weak call of “John?” coming from the direction of the door. He grabbed the kit he was looking for and returned. To the heap.

“You brought me roses.” He stated. _Start with facts, John. Process the facts. It’s SHERLOCK._

“It was Mycroft’s idea,” mumbled the heap.

“Mycroft knows you’re alive?” John asked. His calm was breaking. He wasn’t just processing the facts. _No, John. Stay calm. You can do this. Plus, you can’t go kill Mycroft. Even if he did leave you in the dark for two months. Stupid- stop. Stop it, John. Calm down._

“Did you expect him not to, John? I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re mad about. He figured it out. He’s been helping me.” Sherlock informed him. _Of course Mycroft figured it out. He also probably didn’t want to pain you with information he didn’t know was true-_ “But John, It’s you that I couldn’t stay away from.”

_Wait, WHAT? Sherlock- Sherlock came back for him? Sherlock couldn’t stay away from him. Could the great detective possibly- No. No, he’s married to his work_. John told himself. “Sherlock, I’m not mad.” _Well, that’s a lie._ “Well, maybe I am, a bit.” he stopped himself by dropping to his knees and displaying the first aid kit. Sherlock seemed rellieved John hadn’t come down to his level to hurt him more. _Why would I hurt him more? I love-_ John stopped himself. “Sherlock, I missed you.” _There. That was platonic enough._ “How did you do it? WHY did you do it? Where have you been? Why did you make me go through that? Sherlock, I-“ John stopped himself. He was still applying bandages and salves to the bruises he’d caused Sherlock, though. _Too much. Too much, too fast. Don’t overwhelm yourself. Don’t tell him. It’s not the right time. He feels platonic. You just got him back. Keep him for a while._

“I’m sorry, John.” Came a soft whisper from his friend. “I truly am.” _Yeah, right. You have no concern for anyone but yourself._ “I had to. He was going to kill you.”

“Moriarty?” asked John. Then he processed what he had just heard and said. “Wait… This is Moriarty’s fault?” _Again? Moriarty again? BLOODY MORIARTY!_ John threw the first aid kit out of his hands, stood up and began to violently pace the room, barely realizing what he was doing. Pacing helped him process. Pacing was good for him. Pacing- “it wasn’t- you didn’t-“ John realized something, “You did it to save me?” all at once, he stopped pacing and looked directly at Sherlock for an answer.

It seemed like ages before Sherlock broke the eye contact John hadn’t realized they were making and said “Yes.”

_He did it to save me. He did it to- I would’ve DIED. Sherlock MUST have a heart. He saved my life by dying. But he didn’t die! He’s right there! That’s SHERLOCK. It’s SHERLOCK! IT’S-_ and all at once, John’s inner thoughts grew to a crescendo. _“SCREW PLATONIC”_ his mind yelled, and he kneeled and brought his lips crashing down onto Sherlock’s.

And Sherlock didn’t pull away. So John kept kissing him, no end in sight, reveling in the fact that this was Sherlock. That Sherlock wasn’t dead. John could feel his warmth, in fact. John tangled his body further with Sherlock’s, needing to be closer, needing to feel his heartbeat. Thinking the only thought he could.

_Sherlock._


End file.
